Seventeen eBook

The gentle porter bowed her toward the steps of his
car; but first she gave Flopit into the hands of May
Parcher, for a moment, and whispered a word to Wallace
Banks; then to Joe Bullitt; then to Johnnie Watson;—­then
she ran to William.

She took his hand.

“Don’t forget!” she whispered.
“Don’t forget Lola!”

He stood stock-still. His face was blank, his
hand limp. He said nothing.

She enfolded May Parcher, kissed her devotedly; then,
with Flopit once more under her arm, she ran and jumped
upon the steps just as the train began to move.
She stood there, on the lowest step, slowly gliding
away from them, and in her eyes there was a sparkle
of tears, left, it may be, from her laughter at poor
William’s pageant with Jane and Rannie Kirsted—­or,
it may be, not.

She could not wave to her friends, in answer to their
gestures of farewell, for her arms were too full of
Flopit and roses and candy and sweet peas; but she
kept nodding to them in a way that showed them how
much she thanked them for being sorry she was going—­and
made it clear that she was sorry, too, and loved them
all.

“Good-by!” she meant.

Faster she glided; the engine passed from sight round
a curve beyond a culvert, but for a moment longer
they could see the little figure upon the steps—­and,
to the very last glimpse they had of her, the small,
golden head was still nodding “Good-by!”
Then those steps whereon she stood passed in their
turn beneath the culvert, and they saw her no more.

Lola Pratt was gone!

Wet-eyed, her young hostess of the long summer turned
away, and stumbled against William. “Why,
Willie Baxter!” she cried, blinking at him.

The last car of the train had rounded the curve and
disappeared, but William was still waving farewell—­not
with his handkerchief, but with a symmetrical, one-pound
parcel, wrapped in white tissue-paper, girdled with
blue ribbon.

“Never mind!” said May Parcher. “Let’s
all walk Up-town together, and talk about her on the
way, and we’ll go by the express-office, and
you can send your candy to her by express, Willie.”

XXX

THE BRIDE-TO-BE

In the smallish house which all summer long, from
morning until late at night, had resounded with the
voices of young people, echoing their songs, murmurous
with their theories of love, or vibrating with their
glee, sometimes shaking all over during their more
boisterous moods—­in that house, now comparatively
so vacant, the proprietor stood and breathed deep
breaths.

“Hah!” he said, inhaling and exhaling
the air profoundly.

His wife was upon the porch, outside, sewing.
The silence was deep. He seemed to listen to
it—­to listen with gusto; his face slowly
broadening, a pinkish tint overspreading it. His
flaccid cheeks appeared to fill, to grow firm again,
a smile finally widening them.